The title of thane.
Torin turned it over in his mind while Balgruuf watched him with those patient, knowing eyes. Weighed it from every angle, let it settle into the various compartments of his brain where he stored useful information.
At its core, being thane was mostly honorary. Sure, you had responsibilities—technically. You were supposed to represent the hold, look out for its interests, maybe step in if something threatened the Jarl or his people...
But in practice? Besides the actual advisors of the jarls, most thanes just walked around with fancy titles, got nods from guards, and used their status to grease wheels when things needed greasing.
That part would be useful. Really useful.
Because Torin had plans. Had always had plans, even when he was small enough to fit in one of Kodlak's arms. He wasn't going to spend the rest of his life chasing bandits through the wilderness and sleeping in caves.
He wasn't going to bury himself in the College either, emerging decades later as some wrinkled hermit who'd forgotten what sunlight felt like.
Shedding blood and sweat to live up to Helga's memory? That was one thing. Honoring the woman who'd died to give him a chance at life—that mattered. That drove him.
Dedicating his youth to mastering magic, to understanding the weird, wonderful essence of this strange world he'd been reborn into? That was another. Knowledge for its own sake had value, and Torin wasn't about to pretend otherwise.
But he wasn't an eccentric hermit. Wasn't an honor-hound chasing glory for glory's sake. Those paths led to lonely ends, and Torin had been alone enough for one lifetime.
In the end, he wanted what most people wanted, underneath all the ambition and complexity. He wanted to settle down. Wanted a place to call home that wasn't a barracks or a dormitory. Wanted children—his own children, with his own name, carrying on the legacy of a woman they'd never meet but would always carry in their blood.
Helga's blood. His blood.
And those children? They wouldn't want for anything. Not under his watch. Not ever.
So yeah, a thane's title would help with that. Would open doors, smooth paths, make connections that lasted beyond a single transaction. Would give his future family a name that meant something, a status that protected them when he wasn't around to do it personally.
Torin needed that foundation. Was already building it, piece by piece, year by year. The College connections. The Companions' reputation. The favors he'd collected from Jarls and merchants and random strangers who remembered the big kid who'd helped them with something years ago.
A thane's title would fit nicely into that foundation.
But.
There was always a but, and this time it was the hassle of getting caught up between a jarl and the high king.
Torin cleared his throat, meeting Balgruuf's eyes directly.
"I'd be lying if I said I wasn't honored." His voice came out steady, measured.
Balgruuf nodded slowly, waiting.
"However." Torin shook his head, just a small motion. "I fear I couldn't fulfill the duties that come with such an honor. Not properly, anyway. I'm still bound to Jorrvaskr—that's not something I can walk away from, even for a title. And the College of Winterhold has claims on my time too, at least for the foreseeable future."
He spread his hands, a gesture of apology. "I don't have the capacity for anything else. Or the time. And a thane who can't show up when needed isn't much of a thane at all."
The words hung in the air between them.
Balgruuf's expression didn't change. Didn't flicker. But something in his eyes shifted—a warmth, maybe. Or relief, carefully hidden.
"That's... a very thoughtful response," the Jarl said after a moment. "More thoughtful than most would manage, in your position."
Torin shrugged. "I've had a lot of practice thinking before I speak. Kodlak's credit."
Balgruuf snorted. "I'm sure it is." He leaned back in his throne, steepling his fingers again. "But here's the thing, boy. Torygg didn't ask me to convince you. He asked me to gauge your interest. And if you're interested—even if you can't fulfill every duty right this moment—he's still willing to extend the offer."
Torin's eyebrow rose. "Even knowing I'm tied up elsewhere?"
"Especially knowing that, I think." Balgruuf's eyes were sharp again. "A thane who's connected to the Companions and the College? Who's building relationships across Skyrim instead of just sitting in one hold, meddling in court politics? That's exactly the kind of person Torygg wants in his corner."
Politics. Always politics.
Torin considered this new angle.
"If I accepted," he said slowly, "what would that look like? Practically speaking."
Balgruuf's grin returned. "Now you're asking the right questions."
...
Two days later. Nighttime. Riverwood.
The Sleeping Giant Inn smelled exactly the way Torin remembered—roasting meat, stale ale, and the faint undertone of wet dog that seemed to follow Delphine around no matter how much she cleaned.
The fire crackled in its great hearth, casting long shadows across the common room, and Sven the bard was doing his level best to murder a perfectly good song with his lute.
Torin sat across from Auri at a corner table, a half-empty mug between his hands, his gaze fixed on nothing in particular. Sven's singing washed over him without registering.
The murmur of other patrons—locals, mostly, with a few travelers scattered among them—faded into background noise.
His mind was elsewhere. Circling the same question over and over, like a wolf pacing a penned elk.
What the hell was Torygg thinking?
Balgruuf had explained it carefully. The thane position came with no real responsibilities. An honorary title, pure formality. A name on a scroll, a nod from the guards, maybe an invitation to the occasional feast.
Which made it worse, somehow.
If Torygg had offered real duties—actual responsibilities that would pull Torin away from Whiterun, from the Companions, from everything that grounded him—then there would be a reason. A tangible benefit to the province. A purpose. Something to point to and say "that's why."
But this? An empty title, dangled like bait?
It felt like an insult. Like Torygg was testing how easily he could pull someone out from under Balgruuf's nose, just to prove he could. To make Balgruuf look weak. To show that the High King's reach extended into every hold, even ones with proud Jarls who valued their independence.
Except.
Balgruuf hadn't seemed offended.
That was the part Torin couldn't square. He'd watched the Jarl carefully during that conversation, looking for any flicker of anger, any tightness around the eyes, any tell that would reveal how he really felt. And he'd found... nothing. Balgruuf had discussed it like it was any other piece of business—mildly interesting, worth considering, but not worth getting worked up over.
For a man so concerned with honor and reputation, that was strange. Really strange.
Torin had pressed, gently, trying to understand. And Balgruuf had just smiled that knowing smile and said "Torygg's not stupid, boy. Neither am I. Sometimes the game is more complicated than it looks."
Helpful. Really helpful. Thanks for that, Jarl Ballin', Torin mused.
In the end, Torin had done what anyone with half a brain would do: picked the diplomatic option. Said he'd think about it. Said he'd need to talk to the High King himself, understand what Torygg actually expected before he made any decisions. Balgruuf had nodded along, apparently satisfied, and that had been that.
But the question still gnawed at him.
Why?
Why offer the title? Why now?
Was it really just politics—Torygg flexing, Balgruuf deflecting, everyone playing games with Torin stuck in the middle? Or was there something deeper? Some plan the young king was weaving that Torin couldn't see yet?
He'd cycled through a dozen theories over the past two days. Each one more ridiculous than the last.
Maybe Torygg wanted to recruit him for some secret mission. Maybe he was testing Torin's loyalty. Maybe he had a daughter nobody knew about and was shopping for eligible bachelors. Maybe the whole thing was a prank, and Torin would show up in Solitude to find everyone laughing at the mecenary brute who believed he was to be thaned.
None of it made sense.
"—cupies your mind so, brother?"
Auri's voice cut through the fog, sharp and clear as one of her arrows.
Torin blinked, focus snapping back to the present. The inn. The fire. Sven murdering his lute. Auri sitting across from him, those amber eyes studying him with the kind of attention that missed nothing.
He smiled. Easy. Relaxed. The mask sliding into place without effort.
"Nothing." He picked up his mug, took a sip of ale that had gone flat. "Just deliberating the odds of our target having pointy ears."
His gaze drifted to her ears—those distinctive Bosmer points, poking out through her auburn hair like little arrows themselves.
"I'd say they're pretty high."
Auri sighed, the sound carrying a weight that didn't match her slight frame.
"As much as I'd like to argue otherwise..." She met Torin's eyes across the table. "You're probably right."
Torin raised an eyebrow, genuinely surprised. "Oh? I didn't expect you to agree so readily." He leaned back, studying her. "I thought you'd defend your kind..."
Auri's lips curled into something that wasn't quite a smile. "Dunmer are hardly my kind." She paused, letting that settle, then her grin widened into something sharper. "I'll bet a hundred septims it's one of those ashy bastards."
Torin blinked.
That was... not what he'd expected.
He leaned forward, genuinely curious now. "What makes you so sure?"
Auri shrugged, but there was nothing casual about the gesture. "Because they openly worship the Daedra. Not like the rest of us, who make offerings and hope for the best. They serve. They invite those princes into their lives, into their souls."
Her voice dropped slightly. "Orsimer worship Malacath too—Orkey, they call him. But he's not as bloodthirsty as the patrons the Dunmer have chosen."
Torin let out a thoughtful hum. The fire crackled between them, casting dancing shadows across Auri's sharp features.
"You think Daedra are involved? That these killings are to please one of the princes?"
Auri simply nodded. No hesitation. No qualification.
Torin studied her for a long moment, turning it over. "What makes you say that? It could be anything—simple madness, a grudge that got out of hand. Maybe some deranged bastard's looking for something in the wrong place."
He shrugged. "Most people think pain makes people talk. Usually just makes them say whatever they think will stop the pain."
Auri nodded along as he spoke, acknowledging each point. But when he finished, she just shook her head.
"You're not wrong. Could be any of those things." Her amber eyes met his, steady and certain. "But I have a nose for these things. Literally." She tapped her nose. "I can smell Daedric presence from a hold away."
Torin's eyebrow climbed higher.
"That's a very specific talent." He let the words hang. "How did you come to develop it?"
Something flickered across Auri's face. Just for a moment—a shadow passing behind her eyes, there and gone before he could read it. Then her expression smoothed back to its usual sharp calm.
"Wander around long enough," she said lightly, "and you learn all manner of things."
Torin held her gaze.
She held his right back.
The fire crackled. Sven hit a particularly painful note and then mercifully stopped, taking a bow as a few patrons clapped halfheartedly. The inn settled into that quiet murmur that filled spaces between performances.
Torin let it go. For now.
"A hundred septims," he said finally. "You're on."
Auri's grin returned, fierce and pleased. "Good. I could use the extra coin."
"You could use a lot of things." Torin picked up his mug again, found it still empty, set it down. "But if you're so sure it's Daedra work, what does that tell us about our target? How do we find someone who's got a Prince's attention?"
Auri's expression shifted—thoughtful now, calculating. "Depends on the Prince. Different smells, different signs. Boethiah's followers leave broken things in their wake—bodies twisted, oaths shattered..." She paused. "But if it's Molag Bal..."
She didn't finish. Didn't need to.
Torin nodded slowly. "Then we hope it's not Molag Bal."
"That would be nice." Auri's voice was dry as old bone. "Either way, everything will become much clearer once we get a look at the killer's handiwork."
...
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